June 2009: In time for June, here comes the Swoon. (Gin and juices, with crushed Xanax on the rim.) Just $2! (Management not responsible for loss of possessions after consumption.)
Some must be wondering about the nickname. Well, the original Gasoline's gone to L.A. to rack up the pitcher abuse points on the back of Joe Torre, but the new one's been doing plenty of hackworth in ol' Scott's place. It's hard to say who will play the role of Polystyrene this early, although my money's on Edwar.
Awesome! The humanization/villainization of Alex Rodriguez continues, this time by the New York Times' article "A-Rod’s Properties and Charity Suggest Some Decrepitude of Soul." (Er, "Stinginess," that was supposed to read. Honest mistake.") This article describes some crappy apartment buildings owned by Mr. Rod in Tampa, FL, with carpets stained from the '90s, rickety banisters, piles of old mattresses rotting by the dumpsters, residents quoted as saying things like "Honestly, I was raised in a ghetto and I was brought up a little better than this." Oh, and managers who manage to lose the rent, then kick out tenants for missing rent.
How the fuck do you lose the rent? A gust of Florida can blow away the wind. It can't blow the money on lottery tickets and...whatever else there is to spend money on in Tampa. Flimsy summer suits? Salsa records? Also, A-Rod donated less than $6K to charity in 2005. And his shitty properties have LOST value!
But you know whose apartment buildings wouldn't be falling apart? Derek Jeter. Now that guy knows how to hire a clutch carpenter, and get his evictions done in April, when it doesn't count as much. Jeter knows not to cut corners or cheat on anything. Because all of your mistakes can come back to you:
The Johan Santana watch is currently on beige alert, as Minnesota remains finicky, the Yankees' ultimatum inspired not the pressure it was supposed to apply but the derisive laughter of a Kindergarten class laughing at the huffy kid who runs out the door with his toys saying he'll never play with them again, the Red Sox are apparently failing to bowl Twins GM Bill Smith over, and the Mets are only in this game in Omar Minaya's mind. Trading away Lastings Thrilledge to Washington might've made your weak arsenal of dealable prospects a little weaker there, Omar. I do like the outfield that's possible if Nick Johnson takes back 1B from the Meathook, though. Milledge, Elijah Dukes, Dmitri Young: there will be blood.
Back to Santana watch: the short-term good news is, the Yankees don't have him.
(Short-term because, well, I'd never give up a Phillip Hughes if I had him. See his September statistics too: 3-0 with a sub-3 ERA. He could real good really soon, like now.)
Long-term good news very well may be, we don't have him. (And thus still have Lester, who was just finding his form; Jacoby Ellsbury, an immediate 2008 Rookie of the Year frontrunner, as well as Justin Masterson and Jed Lowrie, legitimate 3-star prospects.)
Short-term bad news is, with no resolution on all the trade talk swirling about, nor the dreams I can't help but hold of a Santana-Beckett 1-1A punch, I'm wasting my work day hitting reload on the Baseball Prospectus and ESPN.com winter meeting blogs. Baseball season has certain times to look forward to, namely, game time, and whenever BP and Hardball Times (among other sites) load up for the day. The off-season is formless and frustrating and long and cold. Eh. When it's cold, you've just gots to chill.
Pablo Picasso, possibly the greatest artist of the 20th century. Only an rich asshole of remarkable degree would pay a painter of his caliber to paint his house.
Alex Rodriguez, plus shortstop, very toolsy. I wouldn't say that only a rich asshole would pay him to play third base, because his value at the plate relates well at third base. But I will say that it's a dubious move when the incumbent shortstop is of limited range, albeit maximum ability to make minimal plays look maximal via unnecessary jumping, and diving. Plus in 2001, he saved America. Quoth the Guiliani campaign, 9/11, 9/11, 9/11. (Pause.) 9/11.
Mike Lowell. Career year at the plate, but most dependably over his career, excellent third baseman. Only a rich asshole and his son would consider signing him to play first base, the easiest position on the field, and also one that Lowell has never played before. And that's what these assholes are trying to do! Because they already have a shortstop playing third base!
Yankee moves to come:
1) Megadeal nets RHP Johan Santana. Santana's golden arm goes to centerfield. 2) Second megadeal nets 3B/1B Miguel Cabrera. Cabrera moves to catcher, C Jorge Posada moves to leftfield. 3) Trade for 1B Richie Sexson. Sexson, being tall and lefthanded, is of course made into a starting pitcher.
As for Lowell, well, I hope he is hearing this shit out to scare Boston into giving him a better deal, not with a truly open ear. I can live with Mike Lowell as a Yankee: I can't live with Mike Lowell being moved out of position to be a Yankee. Forget about it, now. Say no go.
In either case, the love is back...sorta. I feel oddly happy about this movement, actually. Count the blessings:
1) Alex Rodriguez would not be a Sox. 2) The Yankees would not have a chance of bumping up the price for Mike Lowell or signing him outright. 3) The New York tabloids will be entertaining for another year, especially the evil one. Evil and obsessive...all they do is think of you, Alex:
4) Scott Boras will be the first agent to negotiate himself OUT of the negotiations for a high-priced client! Brilliant.
But then, there's the problem:
5) A scary fucking (regular season) hitter would return to the Bronx.
Well, scary and hilariously competitive.
Yeah, come to think of it, sign him, New York. Sign him for fifteen years.
No, dude, it's totally cool. Yeah, yeah, Beckett was deserving, but that doesn't mean he deserved it, if you follow me, not in a year where the Cy Young candidates were this close. Wins, as anyone who reads Prospectus knows, is a silly, arbitrary statistic, so Beckett having the win lead is less than meaningless. And C.C. pitched, like, five more starts in the regular season. Four complete games. Didn't end up meaning anything that C.C. was tired in the postseason, either.
Boss Vaughn says drinks are on the house for C.C. and any Cleveland fans, and that I am not allowed to make any further belittlement of the excellent Cleveland lefty. Especially not fat jokes, which the proprietor's heard enough of for a lifetime.
We'll fire up the grill too, C.C. Have a light snack:
Congratulations to 2007 Rookie of the Year Dustin Pedroia for proving legions of scouts wrong. A 5'4" 150lb second baseman with no particular speed or power can not only be a major leaguer, he can be a vital part of a championship lineup and cover Julio Lugo's ass from the other side of the keystone. All with a broken wrist. That's so solid, no one even need call it scrappy.
Congrats to the voters for not managing to think themselves out of the obvious pick. (Of course, they also went obvious in the NL, where I'da gone for Tulowitzki, but hey, that Braun fella is absorbent and homerun-tastic...plus I do have issues with Tulo insomuch as he's the first shortstop in the majors with Jeter as his hero, something that somehow makes me feel old too.)
Curt'n call. Pretty bad way to announce a pretty good bit of news: 1 more year of Curt at $8 mil, with a possible extra $2 mil in incentives. What about....?
Schill's last thrill! Schill back to the hill! Curt's like a knife! Curt back for 8 million more schillings! Curt back to put on the hurt! Curt Curt Curt! Derp de derp! Give Curt his schillings or else they will be killings:
Any Yankee fan knows the danger of letting a team down 0-3 linger. As Manny Ramirez said, "We don't want to go eating the cake before your birthday." Birthday? Your? Point received, but let tonight be a funeral. Insert classic cold beatdown track on the jukebox:
Barkeep here. Just putting two songs for the jukebox and breaking them down a bit. The Breaks is a great way to actually dig for samples if you choose to.
1. Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians, "What I Am"
Thanks to UMG for actually making this video available. This song got too big for its own good when I was seven or so watching MuchMusic. Y'know, the Canadian music channel?
Lemme just put it this way. J and the Family Roam was in Ecuador then. I loved this song. Then I heard "Slow Down" by Brand Nubian about 15 years later and loved that too.
2. Crooklyn Dodgers (Original Squad), "Crooklyn"
Loose and beautiful track by three amazing emcees...if only for one track. An all-star team that actually is in continual rotation with a hook placed in between them.
Q-Tip of A Tribe Called Quest is a great producer. The song's about Brooklyn of that moment (1994) and of a different time (the 1970s, which Crooklyn was about).
Beautiful samples to my ear here include a championship call (Brooklyn wins! Brooklyn wins!) and the hard-ass DJ Premier/Guru collaboration "The Place Where We Dwell." (Never taking shorts 'cuz Crooklyn's the borough.)
And now let's switch to the walking headphones. G'day.
Hey. Proprietor speaking. We're cleaning up this place. Had to send the barkeeper home; he's working too hard on his other nine jobs. Just catch up for awhile. Try the jukebox and don't even watch this guy's hands. I had hands like that. They build buildings now. Good night.
Alright. Nice Sunday. Ate at Joe's, wandered and discovered that if "Williamsburg" isn't dying, it's at least being pushed further and further South. Drank a couple beers here as the Angels hung tight and then got absolutely manhandled. Enjoyed the company of an Ozzie Sox fan among others. Wrote a couple rewritten lyrics.
gooooodbye anaheim angels... I can't hang a name on you... when it changes every new day... I'm not gonna miss you...
Took the train. Heard via cell phone by field reporter Nay Ratzoo, #3 Marmaduke Fan in the world, that Clemens was down, Clemens was down, and Trot hit a homerun. Good.
(To my field reporter: give me a better name than what I just spat out there. Any name.)
Passed by Slainte and saw that the Yankees were...ahead? Whatever. No, not whatever. Good. May as well see if anyone knows how this happened. Explained a bit of baseball to a dude from the U.K. because he asked me. Apparently I know more about cricket than I thought.
(Hello, across the pond: Jen, Dan, and Lil' E.)
Ordered a club soda just to be a customer. talked a bit of Chicago with some Bears fans, talked a bit of...business? with Packers fans. Fun.
Far as the [New York Highlanders] versus the [Cleveland Spiders], I have three words for you. Blood, blood, blood.
I'm cooked, now I chill.
And then I listen to this. Gorgeous song by a brave man composed as he lay dying, mainly just with some records, samples of which may never have cleared to my knowledge. Played by a Korean punk-rock band. I have been over this before. Wow. Wow. Wow.
Yes, the National League still has great players in it. Yes, I'm supposed to enjoy...what am I doing here?
I don't care. St. Louis was a good team (yes, they caught a young, rusty team on too much rest at just the right time...I feel for you DJ Canoli) ...but... I still don't care.
Cubs. Done.
Phillies. Done.
Rockies. (My sentimental favorite...the team name was an NHL team once too.,..try Uni Watch on the sidebar) Still Alive.
Two sweeps. Great. Fuck it.
I really like the designated hitter, and I also enjoyed David Ortiz playing a good enough 1B in the 2004 World Series.) Oh, and remember Reggie Jefferson? Liked that guy too. Boss Vaughn rarely DHed.
(DJ Premier is spinning at the Knitting Factory tonight, New York beat junkies...I'm not going because I have to go to a more personal show...and God, I hope she's healthy and putting the CAN in CANcer.)
For the record, ESPN.com and your headline writer, the bugs did not simply help the Cleveland Indians win last night. It was a tight, tight game. Andy Pettite is both good and lucky. Fausto Carmona wasn't enjoying the eighth plague either, but he went Nine and gave up ONE run. As a dear Yankee fan friend of mine (of ten years...man, I'm getting old) said as I was watching that game at his place, probably not trying to be that funny:
And yeah, Joba Chamberlain is not a golden god so be careful how you mythologize anyone. Personally, one of the most awful moments in my life, even in the moment, was when someone I later found out was younger than me said I was wayyyy cool. I was actually feeling pretty down. I hope you're doing alright, John, wherever you may be.
Manny Ramirez got something off his chest last night, especially the play where his hat fell off and he flopped around and turned what could have been an out into a double, if we had Coco Crisp playing in every outfield position. We also wouldn't score any runs if we had Coco Crisp playing every outfield position.
Look at this interview with Manny Ramirez and remember it's his first interview with any media this year. He is really emotional. I look forward to his swing now that he can finally say, "Fuck it." See ball, see if ball is a strike, attempt to hit ball. You know, in a couple Seconds. Try it sometime.
And now for an attempted monologue. Manny Ramirez, at the plate. It isn't any particular game. This is his internal monologue.
MANNY
I like my hair. I like my hair. I'm not cutting it. My hat fell off. Whatever. Fuck you, you paid me. Cleveland, oh, I should have stayed in...Cleveland was nice, but..
Ball goes straight down the middle of the strike zone for a strike.
Was that The pitch? Maybe. No. Doesn't mattter. No. Focus. Be nice to hit a pitch, but....
Good slider. Manny doesn't swing as it goes out of the zone.
Not that pitch.
Manny breathes. Fastball, slider, and...what's next? Fastball's an okay guess. Go with it.
A changeup is thrown. Manny barely hits it foul...it floats, but it goes into the seats.
This guy is good. He isn't that good. But he's good. Count's 1-2. Checka 1-2. Ha ha ha. Okay, focus.
Fastball, high, Manny checks his swing. Or does he? I DID NOT SWING AT THAT PITCH.
Catcher appeals to first. Umpire takes a second, and then says, no, he did not swing. Manny sighs.
Phew. High fastball, eh? Not a bad idea, Miguel, but...something's going on behind there. I watched some film of this guy. Young. Very young. Cuba? No...D.R., baby. The glasses. What's behind the eyes? He's more frightened of me than I am of him. I could walk. I could hit. Take a short swing? Of course. All of my swings are short. Where's the pitch going to be? Inside? Okay.
Inside fastball. It nearly hits him. Manny takes a second longer than he should to glare at the mound because it wasn't that close to hitting him.
Asshole. Fuck your mother. (Untranslation: Chinga tu madre, cabron) No, wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. He's throwing a fastball now. I think he actually has some...no...I don't know what he's going to throw. It is still a game, even if it's no longer just a game. Just wait. Just wait. Just wait.
Outside fastball. Not as outside as intended, however. Manny CRUSHES it to right. He just knows. He just stands there. He half-smiles, half sighs.
Hey! Not bad!
... ... ... P.S: Fuck yeah. One win to go.
Bar's closed until at least Monday, maybe Tuesday if I can somehow get the day off. Drink water. I'm not hungover, yet that's what I'm doing right...after....this.
Any Angels fans out there? I've got a free appletini for you, although I think Boss Vaughn is gonna be a little angry when he sees the invoices this month. (About the alcohol type, not the Angels. They treated him well; Duquette didn't. And if you do your research just bear in mind that flavored alcohol will make you kinda ill tomorrow.
Not too much today. Maybe something to come on whatever Sterling says about "Thaaaaa New York Yankeeesss" tonight. I'm trying to keep my job. Simple as that.
But I'll let you in on a couple things.
1) I'm going to try very hard to root for the Yankees throughout this. I cannot explain this to my Bostonian readers yet (and am not even trying to touch Maine yet...beautiful place, but yeah, I was there when there was sun) and this is an EXPERIMENT. I'll see if I can find a New York Giants hat. It's as close as I can come to betrayal through writing instead of...I don't even want to know.
Look, I even have a friend in the NYPD now. For me that is...difficult.
Alright. Time to recycle from the ol' blog. Gary Sheffield and Tim McCarver in an interview that has never happened.
Lights up on Tim McCarver, by himself, as he probably should be. He's coherent, but he is drinking the Yankee Kool-Aid.
TIM MCCARVER Gary Sheffield has a pair of the fastest hands in the game. So fast, in fact, that Gary says when he watches film of himself, he’s surprised himself.
Change the scene. We see McCarver interviewing Sheffield, pre-recorded.
GARY SHEFFIELD (as a Yankee) When I watch the game films of my at-bats, y’know, and I see how fast I get my hands through the zone, y’know, it’s surprising, yeah. I mean, they whip through the zone. I’m not thinking about how fast my hands move when I’m at the plate, I’m just trying to hit the pitch. But my hands, y’know, they just move so…elegantly. Like two little ballerinas attached to my wrists. Like two cheetahs grafted to my elbows.
And then, when I watch my homeruns, y’know, on the game films, well, I don’t really get to admire my homeruns in the game. I’m just trying to not disrespect the sanctity of the game, just round the bases and let the crowd let me hear it. But the motion of those moon shots, y’know, it’s like watching the Eagle land. It’s like watching the World Trade Center towers fall…but, y’know, good. Those 450-foot shots are as much a part of American history as any shot in World War II. But I’m not aware of that, except, y’know, when I watch the film.
And sometimes I just look at myself in the mirror, and y’know, I don’t get to look at myself as much as, say, my wife, or the fans, or those who watch me on TV. I unfortunately have this condition that makes it impossible for me to, like, turn my eyeballs back upon myself and, like, admire my own countenance? But then, sometimes, I’m lucky enough to see my own image reflected, in a mirror or a similar reflecting surface. And, man, I really am a handsome man. My face could be as timeless as Cary Grant’s, really. Y’know, most of the time, I’m just going about my business, not thinking about the fact that every woman I pass is getting incredibly moist at just a quick glance at me. So, yeah, of course, that’s a surprise. Every day is a pleasant surprise. I love being me. I never know what new greatness I’ll find out about myself tomorrow. Me: it’s the best.
Back to McCarver, on his own, watching this film. Realizing...oh dear God I think I liked announcing for the Mets after all.
MCCARVER Smarter men than me would have nothing to say either. Harry Carey, even. This…was Tim McCarver.
If you really wanna get down, well, look up. I dunno, man. I'm ecstatic but there's a lot going on right now with me, almost all of it good. But...
Anyone know the song "Overjoyed" by Stevie Wonder. I like that song, and yet I'm listening to The Secret Life Of Plants right now, a challenging and possibly awful record right now. Thank God you meddling kids didn't buy this when I was chilling (or attempting to) and selling some stuff I thought I could live without on Bedford Ave with my friend Harry. Some girl named Madox (Or...wait...Maddox? I hope it wasn't the latter.) took pictures of me thinking I might fit into...I dunno, some magazine I'd regret later. It didn't happen, and the money would have been nice, but I'm pretty average looking to myself, and imma go bald soon enough. Whatever, I was desperate (for $$, mainly) and it was flattery. Hope someone out there is enjoying "17 Days" right now, because I would love to flip that 45 on 33 right now.
Beckett was masterful.
Coco made a few plays you didn't even notice. Someone make this man a cereal already.
Ellsbury was nicely deployed. Someone buy Tito Francona a shot of this if he needs one after Friday...not that you'll see him around Boston. One of these days Jim, who sent me a genuinely...great? Globe piece on Mike Lowell and the shit he's been through, will set me straight on Boston, a place I love and fear and just don't know very well.
You know where I'm from if you've been following this thing from the start. And you haven't. (Unless you're Josh Wilker, I guess.) Me and Mo, man. Norwalk, CT. The Martime Center is pretty close to where I was born. Pretty shiny aquarium.
I'm tired. This doesn't all make sense to anyone but me, but this is ten minutes of writing and linking, roughly. I didn't mean to end up having just gotten home at this hour, but Erik Marcisak means more to me than I can say, so I stayed in the bar and stuck to two beers. Er, and a vodka Rick Younger bought me. I don't like vodka that much, but clear is better than brown as far as water goes, and a shark on whiskey is mighty risky:
They've been good to us before. We've been very blessed...
(The cosmic slop that was Game 3 of the 2003 ALDS versus the A's, 1986 versus the Angels.)
...and somewhat cursed...
(Actually...wait. The 2005 Red Sox were a paper tiger...we scored runs, but look at that pitching staff. And for God's sake, Boston, Keith Foulke gave you his knees for our glory. And his barely-adequate fastball. An inadequate fastball= no changeup.)
(Even Yankees fans are still trying to figure it out this changeup. I love Manny, but Keith Foulke is forever my World Series MVP.)
(So what if he insulted you, Johnny Burger King? Can you imagine talking to that much media in that small a clubhouse having blown a three-run lead, in a game an AL East Pennant-hungry team didn't actually have to win? I've got no game in particular in mind, so I'll leave it to the reader(s?): You can look it up.)
Back to the subject I'm apparently dodging...we seem to own the Angels lately, but Kelvim Escobar also seems to have figured it out. Game 2 is everything to me because like I said yesterday, I don't shoot craps. But hey, 100 mil plus is already on the line. And he did this...
...at roughly the age when...well, let's just say I thought I was inhaling, but wasn't, and that was probably good. No matter how Daisuke works out, I'm sympathetic to wasted money. Er, not that college was that...um... Dude, I know some Dante! (And Dante. I was Silent Bob.)
I will have a drink or two with my game, at Slainte or somewhere nearby, but I'll pay the extra buck and make sure it tastes good. Probably just plain ol' brew. I don't wanna overdo it, homes.
Hope for the best and expect the worst, Sox Nation. What more can we do?
Man, this was supposed to be my Sunday...sorta. No baseball equals sleep, unless I start thinking of how much I loathe genuine gambling (where the house wins a LOT) as opposed to poker (California says so, goddamnit), and the fact that, well, in game 2, we are rolling the dice.
(Far as the picture above and what's going on with MTV there...your guess is better than mine, 'cause I ain't making one.)
Um...I'm rambling. And I'm addicted to this labor of love...for better or worse, fall hasn't been this good since '04, and in '04, the Red Sox were everything to me. All I wanted to do was give you a gift. The gift of savage wit.
I said it before, I'll say it again, because I am sacrilucious. Patton Oswalt is god.
Look, I don't know if Matt Holliday was safe or not, and I don't think you do either. All I know is that was an awesome game, and I surely am happy I peeked at the TV at The Turkey's Nest before I went home. How happy?
That happy.
I'm also more tired than "Chicken Noodle Soup" is. Bar's closed tomorrow, kids.
Okay, when I say "hangover," it isn't Mets-related. Nor alcohol. It's loss of sleep. God only knows why...I may well have lost the ability to sleep until noon (at least without that other hangover awaiting me at the end...just thinking of that makes me wonder if I will ever get Sparked), or maybe it was just a certain weight I was carrying. When I started in April, it exploded out of my head like motherfucking Athena. Then it didn't. Then I put my chin to the whetstone, though it hurt. Couldn't keep Running Away:
I'm not talking about this blog, which was born, like me, in March. I'm talking about a Labor of love...and maybe bile. It's called New Haven and the Problem Of Change In The American City, a sad-eyed but beloved 97-page baby boy. Four full-length plays down, hopefully more to come. So I'm happy.
But goddamn am I tired:
Man. I'd have a cigarette if I hadn't reformed...most of the time. Do any of you work in Midtown and still smoke cigarettes? I swear, I'll beatbox for a Camel. Newports fuck with my throat a little much for that.
This isn't having anything to do with the Mets. But it is the blues, and y'all know that well.
But you can't lose your job over it, like I nearly did in fall 2003.
Q: Why was I allowed to keep my job after stumbling in one day at 10:30 smelling like Ballatine Ale? (The XXX on those cans isn't a joke, kids.) A: It was a barely-paid internship. And I'm damn lucky.
Do you get to work with headphones on? Good. I offer you all the salvation I can. If there is a heaven, J Dilla is there. But this isn't a gentle wake up, so do NOT download "Workinonit" from me (it's limited...click it now) if you just want to wallow.
Far as Illadelph goes...if you guys can take a loss to the Sox in the World Series, I wish you good luck getting there. I love Tom Gordon as much as one fictional girl, even if he's probably in his last days.
Erg. And I saw John Maine pitch the best game I've ever seen in person yesterday. And...
And Philadelphia is a city in need of a championship, but that lack of success has made for some sour souls...
And...
Fuck.
I'm looking at this picture and it looks sad to me, when I should actually be infuriated. See, I have a traumatic memory with a Mr. Met. It was a Binghamton Mets game. I was ten. Some kid was having fun with Mr. Met shooting a Super Soaker at him, which I did not understand was clearly something prearranged. So innocent Joshua Lee Drimmer, not yet jaded, sarcastic, cynical, or ever confused for anything resembling cool, thought, "Ooh, cool. And I've got this cup of water..." And yeah, so I kinda splashed him. And a voice came from Mr. Met like that ol' voice of death and ice cream, a scary fuckin' thing to hear coming from such a friendly, jovial, baseball-headed...well, not man...suit. You know, like Tom Carvel's voice...but angry...
And this voice was not offering me the crappy ice cream Patton Oswalt waxed not-so-nostalgically on a couple years back on Feelin' Kinda Patton. It wasn't friendly if creepy. No, it was saying, in a gravely, cigarette-destroyed yet LOUD voice,
"GET THIS KID OUTTA HERE!"
And I was taken out of the game, to great embarrassment since the summer camp kids I'd come with watched me leave, crying. They let me back in, but there's still a man somewhere in Upstate New York who I hope is suffering a very random stabbing pain right this moment, preferably in the taint. (Just one quick jab. I'm a kind soul:)
So you can see how sad I truly am for New York's "other" team. You know, the one that actually does deserve better.
And this is all I have to say about John Maine. I have seen the future. Maine's the name. Effective wildness (for now) is the game. Hey, it's worked before. And it can be solved.
But the present is nothing but pain. We Sox fans know this pain from a long history of collapse and near-misses. I'm so, so sorry.
"...The slugger’s .333 average would be the highest for a left-handed Sox hitter since Mo Vaughn finished at .337 in 1998..."
If you don't know which present-day slugger we're talking about here, but are still a Red Sox fan, I recommend reading a site closer to your intellectual speed. I love David Ortiz and Mo Vaughn for different reasons...and the same reasons. I can only hope that in 2015 I've got another big, slow, powerful quasi-first baseman with bat control to root for. Strongly agnostic as I am, that would be what I call a holy trinity.
Since 2004, I've shed a lot of superstition. I don't deeply believe in signs (or at least don't think we realize how many of these "signs" are actually Yield and Stop signs). I do believe that there is such thing as pure coincidence. But I also remember seeing Johnny Damon hit two home runs off Javy Vazquez in a June 2004 game at the Stadium, otherwise a miserable Derek Lowe experience, especially every time Javy struck a Sox out and the scoreboard flashed "Javy Nice Day." Complete with stupid 60s tie-dyed swirls and, you know, the Wal-Mart mascot. I wanted deeply to stab myself with my scorecard pencil; I settled for breaking it in six and burning the half-finished scorecard later. Goddamn it, Derek.
The point is game 7 of the 2004 ALCS. Johnny Damon and his two home runs. And, oh, the grand slam that basically shut the door until the Pedro Martinez Experience brought slight unfounded flashbacks of 2003.
You know damn well who threw that fat pitch that still hasn't landed (and never really will) in the happiest corner of my mind's eye. Yeah. Javy nice day to you too. Enjoy your 70s hangover while you're at it.
Is David Ortiz's amazing transformation into a genuine Triple Crown threat a sign? And the 12 years since 1995 thing?
Did this blog's creation make this happen? Does this mean that like 1995, we might (gulp) catch a bit of a whompin' from the Injuns in the ALCS if, new Mo willing, we get there?
A good day, and the last regular season game with any significance at all, thanks in part to J.D. Drew doing my initials proud with a blast of...power? Does that make...five, tools? (Stay tuned. Hell yes I want more!!!!!![?!?!])
So yeah, it's official. The possible ALCS matchup you probably don't really crave, Sox v. Injuns, would include four games in Boston. Best record in The league. And the leagues. Gold stars and scratch n' sniff stickers all around.
I'll take the time later to describe the greatest pitching performance I've ever seen live (and yeah, I saw me some Pedro) because a thing of beauty is a joy forever. My man John Keats said that. John Keats yo.
Yeah alright, I'm a little...nervous isn't the word. Tired, maybe, since I'd rather be focusing on the amazingly entertaining mediocrity of that AAAA league we call the National League (the Rockies haven't lost since September 15th!) then semi-sweating the last three games. Sure, Joe Torre showed some nice signs of not giving a fuck last night (your closer for the night: Jose Veras...and Joba's pitching the 8th instead of the 9th in that configuration...why?), but teams can stumble into victory, especially when the competition is the Tampa Bay Rays nee Devil Rays.
It's a different scenario thanks to the playoff system and the fact that, really, the Sox can't blow what matters: we're in. But the difference between facing the wounded Angels and trying to negotiate the tilted-cap Scylla and young Charybdis is...significant. And boy oh boy do the Sox have a recent history of collapse.
A little funk to pep you up for tonight, which will hopefully be at least half-magical. We are standing on the verge of getting it on, my people. Hold on.
Coco Crisp, meet Lance Broadway, fresh off his first major league win. Lance Broadway, Coco Crisp, nicknamed partially after the Cocoa Krispies monkey. You make the call.
(Shame he doesn't play for one of the New York teams.)
Now that is true greatness. The Yankees' greatness transcends SPACE! Say what you will about the Yanks' impressive run from below .500 to the Wild Card, but the plotline we never saw coming was their entry into the AL West race.
Somewhere in a third-world country where shirts like this get dumped, there's some guy with an amazing collection, including Buffalo Bills World Champions gear and Boston Red Sox 1986 World Series Champions shirts. Mercy, mercy, mercy. (R.I.P. Joe Zawinul.)
So I'm in love. I know I won't feel this way later, and I'm not fully comfortable with our #2 and #3 starters (Schill and Monster Zero) (Oh, has any announcer pronounced Dai-SU-ke's right this year? Maybe that SportsCenter guy who loves pronouncing Spanish names properly?) (How many parenthetical statements can I make in a row? About three.) in the playoffs. But a healthy lineup that can bash like this every now and then, an Okey-dokey bullpen in spite of the the queasy bespectacled mad Canuck's struggles and, yes, the SI curse (excellent article, by the way; really explains why the hop in Pap's fastball makes him so unhittable), and enough starting pitching makes me feel infatuated with our chances again. These are good times and a true delight to watch.
Scott Kasmir and Josh Beckett willing, tonight might be the night we party like it's 1995, one of the years the title of this blog pays tribute to, and the first year I saw the Sox in the playoffs in my real first days of true baseball fandom. Beware, Anaheim Angels of Los Angeles. Beware.
One quick post before I'm off to Chicago this Labor Day weekend, for those of you who haven't yet subscribed to Baseball Prospectus. Will Carroll reports that "As expected, Manny Ramirez will miss about a week, but won't go on the DL. The Red Sox don't just seem calm about this, they almost seem disinterested." When YES showed Manny sneezing and wincing afterwards at the game yesterday, it's was not a good sign: this brightens my day up a bit.
Just leave New York. Don't think about how Roger Clemens shut the lineup down even when he couldn't find the strike zone and Chien Mien-Wang then confirmed with even more no-hit innings that yes, it's not you, it's us. Don't think of how wasted Curt Schilling's outing was, or how if it wasn't for Kyle Farnsworth (best picture ever of him here) we would have been shut out twice, having wasted our offense on the White Sox. Don't consider the fact that a sweep was the ONLY outcome that could constitute genuine failure, and just like that, it's 5 games again and Yankees fans are taunting me all around my cubicle. And don't let me keep thinking just how long indefinitely is. Just leave this magical city. There's nothing for you here right now:
Good game last night: Andy Pettite remains the Yankees' best starter, Daisuke frustrated the hell out of me with that first inning but settled down thereafter and was just left in a little too long, and my feeling that this was the game of the series the Sox were going to lose came true, but when you're 7 games up, you can concede when the better team for the night won. The Yankees capitalized on their opportunities. They were the better team.
I actually listened to the last few innings on the radio because I was tired, have no TV at home, and didn't really feel like buying another beer to hang around the Boulevard Tavern for the last innings after the Damon home run. As such, I didn't actually see Joba Chamberlain get himself in and then out of trouble with that tremendous fastball/slider combo (I have watched him pitch before, for the record, and yes, his stuff is filthy), but did hear John and Suzy repeatedly talk of this as another inning in "the legend of Joba Chamberlain."
Legend? Legends aren't true, usually involve people who are long dead, and are retold in shitty CGI. Joba Chamberlain has pitched a grand total of 10 innings, two less than there were labors of Hercules. Those ten innings have included 17 Ks, and yes, this kid could be good, but Legend, John and Suzy? Combined with a new annoying catchphrase ("Nice job-a, Joba!"), the evidence seemed to point to a foregone conclusion, namely, Sterling's douchery. What legend?
But lo, my ceiling opened and from the skies came a scroll. This is the true legend of Joba Chamberlain. Read only if you dare tempt that the prophecies may not come true:
...and O!, in a summer where the actress Julia Stiles doth star in a fine 111-minute chase sequence so too there will come a Pitcher of similar heavy brow, a mammoth being, a paragon of action and masculinity, a human manifestation of a large Plate of Ribs, a Native American playing the American Pass-Time.
He could hurt a Horsed Hide through a ring of arrows and past the behemoth David Ortiz, or at least cause the beast to hit a weak fly out! Woe to the three-headed Beast Eric Hinske, the snarling but Docile J.D. Drew, and all the other Monsters of the Eastern American League, for this Fire-balling Hero Slayed them all, for upwards of One inning every two days!
And the Bronxians did rejoice, and Wankerias, Royal Jester, did add a new Pun to his list, which his most ardent and true audience, himself, did find much delight in. Young Joba was slain fighting a mighty dragon and the Bronxians still finished Two Games behind Neptune's warriors but a Legend was Born!
